


flight of a one-winged bat

by princegrantaire



Series: on the brink [6]
Category: Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: Coming Out, M/M, Male Solo, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 13:52:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14695530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princegrantaire/pseuds/princegrantaire
Summary: He’d never imagined the possibility that he might have just stumbled unaided into one of those absurd little realisations that only complicate things further. Life is hard enough when you actually belong somewhere.John considers love and finds out something about himself in the process.





	flight of a one-winged bat

**Author's Note:**

> this is a sequel to [my initial post episode five fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14264430), while not immediately necessary to understand this fic, their first kiss does happen in that one & a lot is referenced here
> 
> endless thank yous to both [permaclown](http://permaclown.tumblr.com/) and [slaapkat](http://slaapkat.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for putting up with me & my endless attempts at brainstorming!

There had been a certain concern back then. Five weeks away from release and endlessly optimistic, John's world had crashed down when he'd come upon the sudden knowledge that he wasn't what anyone would consider _normal_. Only crazy people came to Arkham, he'd told Dr. Leland in so many words. She'd been as reassuring as ever.

_Don't let anyone call you crazy, John. It's the kind of word people use as a weapon._

It had been good advice, right until he’d gone ahead and murdered three people in the long-abandoned Ace Chemicals. The news had racked up the casualties to a grand total of eleven, including the eight people lost in the GCPD explosion. It’s a lot more than John had in mind.

He’s not technically  _allowed_ to watch the news. It’s not conductive to his therapy, Dr. Leland says, like she still believes there’s a chance somewhere in here. There are always newspapers though, innumerable ways to find out the mess he's made of his life.

The nurses still bring him tabloids -- for his collection, he thinks. It’s both tradition and habit, about ten years in the asylum seem to have rendered him closer to the staff than intended. There had been no shock when he’d stumbled back through Arkham's gates and John doesn't want to know what that means. Glossy tabloid covers don't shy away from Bruce Wayne’s involvement with a _murderer_ either.

John scratches at this palm, where the gash has grown crusted over and stark against too pale skin. He’s been told he should consider himself _lucky_. A still-working hand is a rare commodity when you’ve been stabbed right through it with savage abandon.

Lucky is not what John would call a failed hero.

He wants _Joker_ , that half-dreamed figure of justice, so thoroughly forgotten that he’s only gotten himself to speak the word once -- to Dr. Leland and certainly never to Bruce.

So maybe he is just that, _crazy_ , but good intentions must have counted for something, if not in the eyes of the law. John doesn’t rage against the bitter disappointment flooding his little room, he just tries to accept it for what it is and never gets as far as smashing the picture of Batman to pieces. If he did, it would be taken away. A risk he can’t afford.

Dr. Leland never quite addresses any of it directly, not in the terms John had imagined after he’d had to sit and watch Bruce’s too still form in the early hours of that morning, pinned to what must have been a control console and waiting for the inevitable to find them.

Then things get better and worse all at once.

Bruce kisses him in Arkham’s garden and something in John’s chest bursts with too much light. He’s never known perfect happiness like this. They’re both a little teary-eyed by the end of it and Bruce’s goodbye is more of a promise than it’s ever been.

It’s the eventual downfall that worries John. He’s a worrier by nature, anxious but never too malcontent, and a sort of self-imposed solitary follows the next few days.

There’s no one to tell about the kiss, he doesn’t know enough himself. Love, as John knows it, has done nothing but serve cruel finishing blows. This isn’t _that_. Bruce’s visits are inexplicably daily, have been for months, and John still hasn’t gotten used to the way his heart jumps when he hears the words “ _visitor for John Doe_ ” -- as sweet as ever even after all this time.

The kiss replays in John’s mind on a loop. He’s never considered the prospect before. Yet he’s said the words. Has heard himself say the words.

_Be loved by you._

It had been true for as long as he’s known Bruce. The signs have always been there, John just hasn’t recognised them. It’s not--

It _can’t_ be all that normal to feel what he’s feeling for his best friend.

Or have they moved past that?

An agreement to talk doesn’t seem to take them very far. They don’t kiss the next time Bruce visits but they hold hands instead, blindly intimate and somewhat wistful. Something _has_ changed, impossible to place as it is. They even talk, just not about what they’ve found themselves doing. There’s a very good chance Bruce doesn’t know either.

He’d once thought Bruce had it all figured out. There’s some uncertain comfort here.

\---

John's curled up on the leather couch -- coming apart at the seams just as much as he is -- in Dr. Leland's office. A favoured position after countless hours spent here, pouring out his heart or else letting _her_ do the talking. It's one of their afternoon sessions, lit by a bright mid-afternoon sun that offers no peace, and everything is much the same as always.

There's one new addition to this unusually empty office that catches his eye though. It's a framed photo on the desk showing two smiling women, one of which is Joan Leland herself. John's never been to a wedding but he's sure white dresses can only point to one thing and wonders if it's in any way tied to that unexplainable one week absence from a month ago. He’d tried not to take it to heart then, with varying results.

“You’re being awfully quiet,” Dr. Leland remarks, eyes bright with interest.

John attempts a smile. He wants to ask about the photo. There's so very little he knows about Dr. Leland.

"Something happened when me and Bruce were in the garden," he says instead. He doesn't mean to make it sound quite so ominous.

Dr. Leland nods but doesn't prod. John is rarely not impressed by the sort of patience he can't imagine himself ever possessing.

It takes a while to build up to what he's trying to say. Aimless tangents have always been John's speciality, especially when words are hard to find and the right ones seem decidedly doomed. He pokes at the jagged scar on his palm, traces it to the other side of his hand and keeps quiet all the while.

“How-- how much contact are visitors allowed to have with patients?” John tries at last. He doesn’t want to get Bruce in trouble, can’t imagine losing this one lifeline.

He gets a surprised look in return. More of a glance than a look, really. It barely lasts a second. Something constricts in John’s chest all the same, Dr. Leland has always understood but in the face of inhibitions he didn’t even know he had, it feels suddenly vital to find out whether _this_ is allowed.

Maybe it’s one of those things he’s not supposed to feel, like that violence surging through him at the worst of times, the desperate need for survival clawing its way up. Wanting to kiss Bruce, wanting _more_ than just that, is nothing like any kind of romance John has ever seen.

“John, if you need to tell me something--”

“No, no, it’s not anything _bad_ ,” John cuts Dr. Leland off, quick to defend Bruce but less than eager to explain himself. “Bruce kind of… kissed me. In the garden. Well, I kissed _him_ and he didn’t do anything so I thought he wasn’t interested but then he kissed _me_ and oh, doctor, it was--” John clears his throat, suddenly aware of a grin that’s made its way to his lips undetected. “It was great.”

He draws his knees to his chest then, sure he’s said too much. _Guilt_ has been their main talking point for some time now, whether John feels guilty (he does), whether it can be constructive (if he allows it to be) -- this isn’t anywhere close to it. It’s shame rather than guilt, some sort of realisation that feels pathetically delayed.

John glances at the picture on the desk and breathes. Dr. Leland’s smile is gentle as she reaches across and pries his hand away from where it had been unconsciously digging into the scar. It’s a new quirk, one John hasn’t managed to talk himself out of yet.

“John,” Dr. Leland says, firm and very real. He makes a sound that’s a little too much like a deflated balloon. “This is _good_ news.”

“It is?” John’s eyes go wide, teetering on the edge of hope.

Dr. Leland nods, looking close enough to proud that John’s heart does a little somersault all on its own. He just keeps staring as nothing gets written in the little notebook Dr. Leland’s always carried around.

“You’ve collected pictures of Bruce for four years now. I assumed certain feelings came to light during that period, especially after you met him,” she explains, quietly considerate.

Something like relief melts through John, turning him inside out in the process. He scrubs a hand over his face. Dr. Leland has had a front row seat to a then-burgeoning interest in Bruce Wayne since the very beginning, John really should have kept that in mind.

It _had_ been an obsession. Dr. Leland had called it an _obsession_ a little over a year ago, that had been during one of their sessions too, right after he’d stitched up the doll -- very well-made, he’s been told, but not the easiest gesture to appreciate. Bruce had liked it _just_ fine. It still resides on John’s bed, smiling eternally.

He’d never imagined the _possibility_ that he might have just stumbled unaided into one of those absurd little realisations that only complicate things further. Life is hard enough when you actually belong somewhere.

John’s fingers dig into his own leg as he fumbles through _something_ that isn’t a denial. “I’ve never-- about… men, I mean. Or--” and this is tainted by some confusion, “-- or anyone, really.”

There had been no one before Bruce. John had noticed patients here and there, remembered the sheer awe when he’d first seen Bane or the brief glimpse he’d caught of Harvey Dent’s determined, handsome features and clever eyes on TV once. It hadn’t meant anything at all.

The assumption had been an easy one to make, everyone felt that way. John couldn’t be the odd one out, not _again_.

There had been no one _after_ Bruce either. Harley, who had graced him with a black eye and the business end of a handgun the one time he’d dared to push, stands out only in contradiction.

“Confusion is natural, John, especially given the situation with Miss Quinzel--”

“Quinn,” John says before he can think better of it. He tries not to wince. There’s no reason to correct Dr. Leland’s already too kind words. John can’t quite tell why he still cares, why Harley’s name awakens an inescapable dread even now, months after a forgotten chilly love. Not _love_. Something entirely untraceable.

It might have always been _just_ dread, he thinks. John never feels sick around Bruce. Well, he _does_ , just not sick with worry or fear or a morbid need to prove himself in blood. He’s starting to understand Bruce has never asked him to prove himself.

John starts giggling the minute he realises he can’t even remember what colour Harley’s eyes are. It’s a strange thing to hang on to, he can’t help it -- relief tainted by the old fear of memories that never quite add up. It’s not _that_ this time though, he’s sure of it. He just hadn’t looked for long enough, hadn’t even bothered to learn what that means.

These little laughing fits, as much of a betrayal as they might be, are one thing that hasn’t changed since John’s returned. Dr. Leland’s more than used to them and, then again, she did always claim he needed to let himself _feel_ his emotions.

“I really think I might be--”

He can’t say it. Dr. Leland’s soft smile means more than enough.

\---

Sleep-frazzled and sweaty, John startles awake, unsettled only in the way a racing heart demands. He does nothing but lie there for a moment and think of phantom hands on his hips until the morning rushes in and all the physicality of it follows.

Not phantom hands after all. _Bruce’s_ hands, his mind helpfully provides through fragments of the kind of dream he doesn’t encounter all that often. It’s not surprising he’s hard in his thin, Arkham-issued pants. John flushes all the same. A cursory check-in reveals it’s barely even morning, there are still hours to go until breakfast.

John bites at his bottom lip, considers it and gives in. Pale fingers dip beneath his waistband. He’s had this dream twice before, just never about anyone specific, never when yesterday’s memory of Bruce’s mouth on his remains stark.

In the two weeks since that first tentative kiss, they’ve progressed to what John might, generously, call _making out_. He’s not entirely sure he’s got it right, in light of a distinct lack of experience _and_ exposure to this kind of thing, but he doesn’t mind the pace they’ve adopted. Not knowing where they stand is practically a precursor to his relationship with Bruce.

It’s not quite friendship anymore, John’s sure, but he still feels the sting of something hot and uneasy in his gut as he kicks off the sheets and shoves both pants and underwear to his thighs, desperate enough that it leaves him feeling warm all over in an entirely different way. He grips the base of his cock, clumsy in his haste, and tries to convince himself that there’s no chance of anyone hearing the thoroughly mortifying sound he makes.

Bruce must do this. Bruce _must_ do this sometimes.

The thought leaves John breathless and he has to turn his face to the pillow, all frantic movements as he tugs at his cock. There’s too much friction, the ridge of the scar keeps catching as he strokes, but it’s _good_ and more than John knows what to do with -- his own solitary need suddenly incomprehensible.

John has a rhythm by now, getting slick with pre-come and _too_ close already, the dream swirling around his mind, in and out of focus like a half-forgotten memory.

There aren’t many details to remember, he just knows he _wants_ , deep and hungry and frenzied, all Bruce is willing to offer. John wouldn’t ask for more, can’t imagine how he’d even go about it. He thinks of himself in Bruce’s lap, those warm hands all over him, thinks of Bruce _in_ him and it would be enough, it _is_ enough to--

He tries to hold his breath as he comes but still whimpers through it, face buried in a sweat-soaked pillow. John stays there, panting, and finds it very hard not to feel like he’s just crossed a line. He brings a hand up, stares at the come on his fingers -- white on startling white, and wipes it on the sheets.

\---

“I dreamed about you last night,” John says then wisely looks away.

Bruce’s rare real smile lights up his face entirely. It’s a fact John would be all that more intimate with if he could actually _look_ Bruce in the eye, something of a daunting task after a misspent morning. He squirms slightly at the memory and becomes entirely too fixated on a cracked tile on the wall right across from where they’re sitting on the bed.

Eye contact has never been a problem, at least not in the usual way. There is, in fact, an abundance of it -- more than would be considered strictly friendly, John thinks, but he’s never been able to figure out where friendliness ends and an unintended sinister undertone begins.

Whether Bruce feels some imperceptible change in the air or he simply already _knows_ , no further questions prod at a flimsy icebreaker. John still unwillingly entertains the possibility, wonders what could have given him away, _if_ something did. A sudden train of thought wrought with mild paranoia, better than the kind that warns him Bruce Wayne has no business settling for a murderous mental patient or that Arkham’s gates will never open for him again.

They fall silent and John’s inherent need to fill any lull in conversation doesn’t quite kick in soon enough. He can tell something’s on Bruce’s mind, with any luck it’s anything _but_ what John has been getting up to.

“I tried to sign your phone out of evidence.”

Bruce sounds awkward about it, like he always does when something’s deemed abruptly important _or_ personal enough.

“Oh?” John’s perking up even as he tries not to look too hopeful.

Bruce tried to get _his_ phone out of evidence.

His _phone_. Easily one of John's’ most prized possessions -- handy with collecting memories, sadly lost somewhere along that quest for impossible justice. Or, rather, forcibly taken away while John had been busy asking about Batman’s wellbeing but it’s much the same thing.

“Didn’t work out,” Bruce finishes with a sigh. “Gordon doesn’t particularly--”

“Like you?” John offers with a smile. Bruce nods, relieved.

Not enough clout left in the GCPD, John guesses and finds it necessary to scoot a little closer to Bruce. The gesture is already in itself more than John can picture _anyone_ doing for him, the success or lack thereof seems wholly inconsequential. He quite desperately wants to kiss Bruce and wonders if it’s the kind of thing that requires a warning.

“I’m sure Batman could sneak in,” John remarks because he never did learn when to shut up.

“John--”

His smile falters then puts on a disappearing act. John frowns at his own socked feet and resists the urge to smack himself. What a _stupid_ thing to say.

“I didn’t mean-- I-I know you wouldn't!” John stutters as he scrambles for an explanation. Ace Chemicals still hangs above.

“John.”

One _very_ softly-spoken word. Bruce’s hand on his shoulder. John breathes.

“I was going to say I’ve never broken into a police precinct before.” Bruce seems to be aiming for mild amusement, though there’s a weight here too.

Neither acknowledges the lie. Whatever Bruce was going to say is better left to the recesses of time, buried in those dusty boxes of unspoken guilt that can only keep piling up.

If John’s smile keeps wavering, it means nothing. Bruce is still here. John _does_ kiss him then, on a slightly stubbled cheek, certain anything more than that would reveal the morning. Bruce is always warm and never not a light in John’s heart, in and out of Arkham.

“Hey, “ John starts, bumping shoulders with Bruce, apparently content with moving on. “I heard you talking to Dr. Leland in the hallway. Everything alright?”

An unexpectedly less deadly subject than any alternatives.

Bruce actually looks _sheepish_ at that, like he’s been caught in the act -- John knows the feeling well enough but finds no reason to worry just yet. He vaguely remembers something about _doctor-patient confidentiality_ , seemingly important now that he’s sure Dr. Leland wouldn’t reveal anything about undue realisations.

“Since I couldn’t actually bring your phone, I was thinking we could--” Hesitant or not, that Wayne charm is unmistakably there. John thinks he’s ready to agree to anything Bruce throws his way. “We could watch a movie? It just has to be one approved by Dr. Leland.”

He’s nodding before he can even register it, grin wide and disarming.

\---

A full rec room is both stifling and rare. The weather this evening offers no compromise though so even the few patients who still prefer the gardens are stuck in here now, attempting either board games or conversation, neither of which is too appealing.

John’s taken over one of the seats in front of the TV. He wouldn’t miss it for the world, this one constant link between a brief glimpse of the outside and the dreary asylum. Even _before_ , the seat was always his, a near-permanent fixture in the rec room -- on the off-chance of one of those a dime a dozen ghost hunting series or a particularly interesting talk show. There’s not much he doesn’t have a taste before.

It’s sheer luck that Vesper Fairchild, looking smart in front of a studio audience, is currently introducing Bruce Wayne. Sheer luck that makes John’s breath catch.

John glances at the nearest orderly. It’s one of those rapid, flighty movements, not panic-stricken as much as uncertain whether he’s allowed the pleasure of a Bruce Wayne interview. The answer might be a resounding _no_ , especially as the pleasantries get left behind and The Pact is brought up. He drags his chair closer, eyes glued to the screen.

Filmed last week, John guesses on the sole basis of Bruce’s tie and not much else. The suits all look identical to him -- drab and in varying shades of black or grey, all very flattering on the right man.

Bruce, undoubtedly the aforementioned right man, hadn’t told him about this particular TV appearance. John’s mind immediately jumps to hope, on the lookout for some _surprise_. Something tells him it’s a rather unlikely prospect.

“ _Do you think Batman is a symbol of justice in Gotham?_ ” Vesper Fairchild asks on the screen. If she thinks it’s a tall order for the likes of Bruce Wayne, she’s certainly showing it.

There’s a pause and John squirms slightly, unknowingly nervous. Bruce doesn’t usually _do_ interviews, he’s confessed to a difficulty in winning over the public after the past two years and a clear dislike of the whole process. John doesn’t mind, he no longer has to cling to tabloid clippings and other remnants of fame.

“ _Batman is a hero,_ ” Bruce starts, a little muffled by the chatter of the rec room. John turns up the volume. “ _But vigilantism hardly has any place in Gotham’s justice system. It’s certainly not a symbol, at least not as much as the commissioner’s moustache or those little hammers judges use._ ”

John blinks, stares and hears exactly nothing of what follows. Then the giggling starts, high-pitched and disjointed until it turns into a full-blown laughing fit and the nearest orderlies start scrambling for the remote. He thinks his heart might just burst out of his chest.

A moonlit rooftop too long ago is what John remembers, the bat-signal sharp against a backdrop of black and his own shadow puppets tainting the familiar silhouette. He’d just been playing pretend, and he’s always been so fond of that, but clearly--

Well.

Clearly _someone_ had heard.

He starts chuckling again, the TV’s been turned off by now but John is just _so_ very happy he’s buzzing with it, needs quite desperately to clutch something suffocatingly tight. Bruce had listened _and_ remembered.

There’s only one thing to be done here and John, still giggly and smiling wide, excuses himself and risks a mad dash for his room. Neither guards nor orderlies follow, though their gazes do, confused and not all that judgemental. It’s not _uncommon_ , not for most patients at least and rec room privileges are rarely affected by sudden departures, especially if becoming overwhelmed is quoted as the cause.

John’s never dared before all the same. The TV and the one time Dr. Leland had shown him an instructional video about crocheting on her phone -- upon request, of course -- are the few indulgences he’s been allowed beyond Bruce’s visits.

It takes John a minute or two to locate the doll once he makes it inside. He’s technically allowed to have it, knows Bruce had asked and double checked, but there’s still something about having a doll of Bruce Wayne in plain view that doesn’t sit well with him now that he knows the man. It’s not quite embarrassment as much as caution that makes him keep changing the doll’s hiding place.

“You really remembered, didn’t you?” He holds the doll close, grip tight and unyielding.

He’s talked to the doll before, once or twice when the nights have gotten particularly lonesome, but he’s never ached so much for his phone before -- some way to get in touch with Bruce, to thank him for this little piece of his heart given away freely.

Something too warm and not wholly foreign is coursing through him and it’s nothing like the warmth of a dream or the delayed embarrassment of a unfortunate confession. John might just like it.

\---

Bruce’s briefcase is all black, very sleek-looking and frankly inexplicable.

“Sorry I’m late,” Bruce says as he closes the door behind him. There’s still a guard outside, John’s sure of it, but they no longer insist on escorting Bruce here. Progress -- maybe, _hopefully_.

He’s not actually late. Time passes differently in Arkham, slow like molasses when you least expect it, John’s an expert by now, but it’s certainly not _late_. They’ve still got hours.

As Bruce sits down on the bed and very carefully puts his briefcase in his lap, John just stares from where he’d been sitting by the window. He’s smiling though, it’s hard not to at the sight of Bruce, familiar by now and never not too-good-to-be-true.

“Are we having a meeting?” John asks, only partially a joke. Possibly not at all. He eyes the briefcase.

That seems to startle a laugh out of Bruce and it’s not the first time John’s managed it but it’s rare enough that he finds himself compelled to kiss Bruce _and_ doesn’t immediately overthink it. That comes only a moment later, despite how very brief the kiss is, nothing more than a reassuring brush of slightly chapped lips.

“No, unfortunately.” Bruce is still smiling faintly as he opens the briefcase and reveals a laptop. “Just watching a movie.”

So Dr. Leland had agreed. John beams and considers the necessary arrangements. It’s a tight fit on the bed even without the laptop, they’d attempted to lie down together exactly once and it had taken all of three minutes for Bruce to tumble down, so he drags the one chair in the room in front of them. Bruce seems to be thinking the same thing as he turns the laptop on and places it on the chair.

Then there’s a brief interval of too tense silence that John can only think of as foreboding. He plops down next to Bruce, studies him closely and determines absolutely nothing. His detective skills still need honing, he’s certain of that much.

“I-- I wasn’t sure what we could watch?” Bruce looks distantly embarrassed about it, as if he’s already had this talk with himself before and had come out on the losing end.

That, too, spreads through John in familiar increments.

It dawns on him they know all the ugly, scarred, fundamental parts of each other but none of the trivial little details that make up their lives. John endeavours to find out exactly what sort of movies Bruce prefers -- the kind of thing tabloids have never let him in on.

“What’re the options?”

John hopes he doesn’t look particularly expectant. He’s really not. The presence of both Bruce and a laptop are enough to warrant all the excitement bubbling up, he’d be more than content watching commercials.

The options are, ultimately, mostly documentaries and a few animated musicals, the latter which John finds infinitely more interesting. It’s Dr. Leland’s approval that’s left them without too many alternatives, rather than any lack of imagination on Bruce’s part, he’s quite certain of it.

“And I also got something called --” This sudden reluctance is endearing but not concerning. “-- _Scooby Doo on Zombie Island_.”

The reaction is instantaneous. John’s eyes widen, just a little, as if he’s stumbled into an epiphany, and knows almost immediately that there’s no part of that of that title that doesn’t appeal _specifically_ to him. He laughs and tells Bruce as much. Something eases between them then, only gets lighter as the movie starts and John finds an arm slung around his shoulders.

“You know, I used to be afraid of Scooby Doo as a child,” Bruce says, mostly background noise to the all too ominous findings on the screen, namely the first appearance of _Morgan Moonscar_.

“The dog?” John asks, delayed, just in case he’s misheard.

“The dog.”

It’s a day of firsts. Bruce has never mentioned his childhood before or, for that matter, had ever acknowledged any sort of _fear_. Whether it’s _used to_ , or _was_ or _might have been_ is irrelevant, John recognises this as trust and feels a deeper gust of _hope_ come up from the bottom of his heart.

At John’s prompting, Bruce gets through the absurdity of a group of detectives never investigating the origins of a talking dog, hazy afternoon light outlining that handsome face, features softened by something he can't place. John wants to reach out and touch the light itself.

Warm and content and curled up around Bruce, he remembers all he’s come to learn about himself lately -- baby steps, faltering stops and starts, all of it. He’s not likely to drown in abyss of Ace Chemicals anymore. He’s even outgrown the space he’d made for himself inside The Pact. What’s survived of him can be shared with Bruce.

This, John thinks, must be what _love_ feels like.

**Author's Note:**

> \- title comes from sufjan steven's "drawn to the blood" (well, he says _dove_ , i prefer bat) because i've got a theme going on here  
> \- dr leland has A WIFE  
> \- bruce during that interview is obviously & unfortunately quoting john's rooftop fanfiction [about gordon and batman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TPVuCwmKAXM)
> 
> hope you enjoyed!!!!
> 
> [talk to me on tumblr!](http://ufonaut.tumblr.com/)


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